


Consuming Passions

by historymiss



Category: Gideon the Ninth
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-31
Updated: 2019-10-31
Packaged: 2021-01-31 20:04:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21253451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/historymiss/pseuds/historymiss
Summary: It was inevitable, perhaps, that the bond they’d formed in the gloom of Drearburh wouldn’t survive the harsh light of Canaan House.
Relationships: Gideon Nav/Dulcinea Septimus, Harrowhark Nonagesimus/Ianthe Tridentarius
Comments: 5
Kudos: 53





	Consuming Passions

It was inevitable, perhaps, that the bond they’d formed in the gloom of Drearburh wouldn’t survive the harsh light of Canaan House.

In the end, all it takes is a word from Dulcinea Septimus. The laying of a gentle hand on Gideon’s bicep as she moves the frail necromancer from seat to sunlit seat in the broken greenhouse. The air is thick and humid, the smell of rotting greenery thick in the air.

Nobody has ever been so gentle with Gideon Nav, and at first she doesn’t know what to do. Just stands there, dumb, as Dulcinea moves her hand from bicep to shoulder, her touch the delicate whisper of a moth. Slowly, painfully, Dulcinea levers herself up to plant the barest of kisses on Gideon’s lips.

Her mouth tastes of blood.

It is still sweet, to Gideon, to have her so close, the rasp of gauzy cloth against the rough cotton of her robes the only counterpoint to their breathing. Gideon’s strained, barely believing gasp as they pull apart, Dulcinea’s rattling, satisfied wheeze. 

“There, my dark, dour darling.” Her eyes are the washed out blue of the sky after a storm. “Isn’t that better than skulls and silence?”

Gideon thinks she’s hiding it well enough, until Harrow shows up at the quarters they share with shadows on her neck ill concealed by black paint. 

Then she wonders why she bothered hiding it at all.

—-

You had thought of it as revenge. Something petty to throw in Griddle’s face, another skeleton buried in the mud and rock of your attenuated, stifling relationship. The first time she makes you come, her faded head dipped between your legs pressing into your body insistent and unrelenting as the crash of the sea into the rocks far below you, you know that once again you have badly miscalculated. 

You had been drawn to her because you recognised the hunger in her face as similar to your own. Now you know that it far surpasses anything you’ve ever felt, and now she knows the taste of you. 

Ianthe grips your thigh, hard, and you bite down on your tongue to keep from crying out. She feels the tension run through your body and sniggers, looking up to you. 

You’re largely silent in these sessions. Speaking would make it... more real somehow. If you withhold your words from her, maybe you can still retain some form of control.

Later, you will match your fingers to the marks she left on your neck.

It would be so easy to close your hand. 

You swallow and feel your pulse bob under your hand, a current two hundred strong.

Can Ianthe taste all that death in your blood, when she runs her tongue over the scratches she’s made?

Does she even care that she’s lying in an open tomb?


End file.
